The Raft

Chapter 1: Awakening

He awoke to the sound of rushing waves … they had to be in his own head, surely? The man opened his bleary eyes as they were stung by a whip of sea-air, and the smell of salt filled his nostrils. He squinted down at his body; he was on his side with his cheek leaning on the back of his right hand, his legs sort of crossed over. It was with a jolt of striking recollection that the man realised he was in fact in standard recovery position, just as something jolted beneath him.

The man groaned as he slowly shifted his weight to sit up. It was then a terrifying, enveloping, and wholly overwhelming sight. Waves. Ocean. Absence of land. As far as the eye could see, not a hint of land, only a deep blue colour reflecting from the clear sky onto the seemingly infinite stretch of water. So they hadn’t just been in the man’s head …

The man stood up, almost involuntarily, without thinking at all, and then looked down at his feet to see he was standing on a roughly cut but thoroughly sturdy plank of rich chocolate-brown wood, and in fact he looked around to see that masses of these planks were attached together to create the primitive but comfortingly spacious raft he realised he was standing on. He was sailing the ocean …

The man stared at the raft until a feeling of déjà vu hit him like a punch in the gut. Déjà vu? He wondered. But how? This is insane; I can’t have seen this raft before …

He tried to remember if he had, figuratively scratching the bowl of his memory … but there was nothing. Nothing at all, the man thought in a sudden, shocking sweep of realization. My memory is totally empty …

The man began pacing the raft wildly, his heart beating at an accelerating rate. Was it him, or was the sea-breeze whipping up his thoughts and ideas into a collective roar of protest? This is impossible! I don’t remember … a thing about my life. Suddenly he stopped pacing and breathed deeply in an attempt to invoke calm … he tried to answer the questions clamouring inside his head reasonably … why was he on the raft? The man confessed to himself that he didn’t know; he didn’t remember. How did he get there? The man physically shook his head this time. There was no hint as to how. And why was he put on a raft in the middle of the ocean but allowed the extravagance of resting unconscious in recovery position? Who would do such a thing? How long had he been on the raft? Why couldn’t he remember anything?

Wait, the man suddenly realised with a fleeting spurt of joy. I remembered what recovery position was! But, the man concluded, that was nothing to sing about when he couldn’t even remember his own name. He put his face in his hands – the last, but most prominent question was haunting him, slowly but surely impacting on him hard – he ruffled his hair; caressed his face; pinched his cheek, all in a vain desperation to answer his last question but to no avail.

Who … who am I? The man took another deep, calming breath and looked around the raft. It was huge – for a raft anyway; it smelt of green nature. His eyes roved the lengthy stretch of dark brown, spiky wood, and he was surprised to see a desk, clearly planted on and built into the centre of the raft. He stared at it for a moment, intently, in almost a surprised awe, and began to approach it slowly, stretching out his arms as if he expected to lose his balance and topple. He suddenly noticed his clothing – he was wearing a thickly-woven, smart white shirt, tucked neatly into black pinstriped trousers. His black tie hung loosely around his neck, and his black shoes had the look of a pair that had shone with polish only days before. Dark hair that had been previously slicked-backed swayed in a sense savagely over his small white forehead and his currently-fixed-on-the-desk brilliant blue eyes.

He steadily met with the hip-high cuboid desk. The man mused with mild interest if it was hollow or not. There were a few objects scattered on the desk, looking but not feeling haphazardly-placed. A compass – he frowned, interested but confused. A map (but the map was of land! There was no land in sight!). A folded newspaper cutting – the man pocketed it; he would read it soon. And last but not least on the desk surface, an envelope, addressed to no one, but certainly carrying something inside. He flipped it over and saw a bright red seal, but with small but flowing golden lettering scrawled across it. It read:

MR/JD

The man was instantly intrigued. There was definitely some sort of note in the envelope, he observed … and something heavier. Cold; smooth; round …. he suddenly understood that it was a ring.

Then the man made the decision peer over the desk, to see what it was perhaps hiding from view. He dropped the envelope back on the desk and stepped back in surprise, before walking round the desk to get a closer look. His eyes met a huge open hamper of food and drink. Bottles of soda, water, fruit juice, cordiale – why, even beer, the man realised – and packets of crisps, huge bowls of fruit, plates of sandwiches smothered in a protective wrapping of Clingfilm, pieces of meat, chicken legs, sausage rolls, chipolatas, similarly packaged to the sandwiches. Tins of biscuits, chocolate bars, cakes … the man stood foolishly in his businessman’s clothes gawping, dumbstruck. His eyes roved this newly-discovered section of the raft again and he saw his expensive-looking tuxedo jacket curled up on the raft’s wooden floor. He scooped it up and pulled it on, feeling the bitter gusts of wild wind sharply than ever.

He suddenly sat down, leaning against the desk, his pinstriped-trouser-clad legs splayed out like a child’s. He pulled the newspaper cutting out from pocket with his index and middle fingers, and slowly opened it up to read …

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Chapter 2: The First Dream on its way soon